


You’re Headed on the Strings

by Ghostcat



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Blind Character, Drabble, F/M, Marvel Universe, My First Work in This Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3790270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/pseuds/Ghostcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt sends for Claire after a fight when he doesn't really need her. She stays, things happen. The awkward morning after. The promise of lunch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You’re Headed on the Strings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AbsolutelyIris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbsolutelyIris/gifts).



> Happiest of belated birthdays to AbsolutelyIris. Thank you for joining me in my Matt x Claire frenzy. I promise to expand this to an acceptable length and put stuff in there that will embarrass you and/or make you roll your eyes at my stupid. 
> 
> Thank you to Bryrosea and Disdainfullady for the quick beta assist
> 
> Title taken from The Gospel of John Hurt by Alt-J, the only song about alien-chestburstin' that would also make an excellent love scene soundtrack

The last vestiges of his dream were red. No surprise there. They were always red. But this was a pleasant red– warm, safe.

“It’s late.”

Claire’s form flickered next to him on the bed. She was sitting. Her knees, her hip, the way one of her shoulders sat higher than the other. She smelled like his soap, not like him.

“No, no, no.” Matt pulled her down to him and drew his nose along her sternum, breathing in the warm skin underneath the vetiver and green; the sleeping part of her that could belong to him, not the wakeful part that couldn't. He bit at her earlobe, softly, around the tangy silver of her earring stud.

“I have to go. You know I do.” She didn’t move.

“No, I don’t.” He grinned widely, felt the shimmer of her response.

“That smile of yours is a problem for women everywhere.”

“What about _this_ woman?” He ran his palm down her back, her blouse felt thin.

“This woman is not… immune. But she’s also not stupid.” She pushed herself up to standing and her heat fell away. Bare feet on wood. The smudgy slide of shoe–canvas, flats. The jingle of her keys in her bag. “This-”

“Was not a mistake,” he interrupted.

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

Distance. Toothpaste. Mace and a switchblade. The powdery residue of her gloves.

“Sorry. Continue.”

“I was going to say– that this was something I wanted. But it’s not going to be a… thing.”

He wanted to make a joke, dance around the obvious fact that it was far too late for that. They were a thing. She and him. Had been a thing since the moment she’d fished him out of that dumpster, cleaned him up, and put him back together. He didn’t though. Because to deny her the notion of different outcomes was not the correct approach. At the moment, he was a man without arguments.

Down the street, on 48th, a baby cooed at a trio of mewling puppies. A little further along the same block someone was using a wrench on a fire hydrant, in preparation for another scorching summer afternoon. Hell’s Kitchen was alive.

Matt stretched gently, trying not to tear any of Claire’s stitching, but he felt them give a little anyway. The tension felt better than he liked to admit. Claire laughed– a laugh like oranges and rum.

He sat up gingerly. “Claire. Stay. We can go get lunch. You like Ethiopian food?”

A car went by outside, blasting something with a female-wailed “Hola, bebe” refrain.

“You didn’t actually need me last night.” She was by the door but warmer than before. This boded well. “I’ve seen you worse.”

“But I did. Need you. I needed you.”

Warmer still. Her bag slid down her leg, onto the floor. Closer. Claire had violets candies in the front pocket. Those were Sister Paul’s weakness. She was kind too.

The bells at Sacred Heart rang out dully, signaling a new hour and the start of Spanish language mass– a sad melody, old and familiar.

Matt waited, patient and still, until Claire’s warmth was like burning. She knelt, her strong fingers spread out on his knees.

“Ethiopian. That’s the stuff you eat with your hands, right?”

“You got it.” He used his hands to angle her chin, tilting her face. A burst of remembered-light, vanilla and honey, salty-sweet and slick, the heat of her mouth.

“Do they deliver?” Flames licked his cheek.

There was no answer to her question. No time for it. The red took over and it was a consuming fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: @ghostcat3000


End file.
